


Triangulation

by linman



Series: Tenebrae [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-02
Updated: 2010-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-06 23:44:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linman/pseuds/linman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an impromptu meeting, Elisabeth and Giles commit a number of indiscretions, forcing them each to reconsider their position. Set during S5 "Triangle."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Triangulation

**Triangulation**

by L. Inman

 

Wet, dirty snow was falling as Elisabeth came up from the Underground tunnel entrance.  She hunched up tighter in her coat at the sudden blast of wind.  A cell phone rang; she twitched with irritation until she realized that it was Olivia’s—hers.  She pulled it ringing from her pocket and dodged out of the stream of human traffic to answer it.

            “Hello?” she said, wondering what Olivia could want—hoping there was nothing wrong.

            “Hello—Elisabeth?”

            Her heart stopped a moment.  “Rupert?”

            “Yes.”

            “What are you—are you in town?”

            “Yes—I’m at Olivia’s flat, actually.  She suggested I call to get in touch with you.”

            “What are you—Oh.”  She stood blinking stupidly a moment as comprehension sank in.

            “Listen,” he was saying, “is there someplace we could meet and have a drink, or eat something—?”

            “Yes—”

            “Where are you?”

            She told him.  He suggested a nearby pub, and arranged to meet her there as soon as he could get a taxi.  He rang off; she turned off the phone and put it back into her pocket, then, wholly reoriented, went in search of this pub he spoke of.

            She found it without much difficulty, slipped in, ordered a whisky and soda, and snagged a booth, tossing her coat into the seat across from her to save Rupert a spot.  She salted her napkin and took a long sip; she suspected she was going to need the stiff one.  There was only one reason for Rupert to be in London at this time of year, and it was no time that she wanted to be near him.  He was seeking answers, and—no matter what his intentions toward her were—she didn’t trust herself not to give them to him, not if she saw him _in extremis_.

            It took him a fearfully long time to arrive.  Elisabeth cautioned herself that it was evening, and traffic was heavy; not time to worry yet.  She sipped sparingly at her whisky and soda, not wanting to make too many inroads into it before he came; salted her napkin a second time; put her chin in her hand and observed the pub’s clientele; almost forgot for a moment who she was waiting for.

            Nevertheless, she saw him before he saw her.  He hurried through the pub’s entrance, shaking the collar of his overcoat free of snow.  She was relieved to see that he did not look to be _in extremis_.  His gaze searched the faces and backs at the bar and tables, passed over her once, then lit on her looking directly at him.  Recognition brightened his face, though he did not quite smile.  She, however, found herself smiling irrepressibly as she edged out of the booth to stand and meet him.

            “Rupert,” she said; he murmured her name back to her; they shook hands and by mutual impulse pecked one another on the cheek, then settled themselves across from one another in the booth.

            The barmaid bustled up.  “Why, Rupert Giles!  I didn’t know you were still around.  You didn’t tell me _he_ was coming,” she said to Elisabeth.

            He put up a nervous hand.  “I’m not really here.  Just—on an errand.  Anyway, I’ll be getting any of the others,” he added, indicating Elisabeth’s drink.

            “Right you are.  And what’ll you be having, then?”

            He looked at her.  “What’re you having?”

            “Whisky and soda,” she said.

            He lifted his eyes on a breath.  “Sounds heavenly.  Same for me,” he said.  The barmaid scuttled off.

            Elisabeth swallowed a smile.  “So they know you here,” she said.

            “Yes,” he said, diffidently.

            She bent her head and took a sip of her whisky, only to catch his lips twitching into a smile.  “What?”

            “Elisabeth,” he said, “those straws are for stirring, not for drinking from.”

            She lifted out the little black straw and stabbed at an ice cube.  “It’s a _straw_, isn’t it?” she said.  “Long as it’s a straw, I figure I can use it like one.”  She gave him a defiant half-smile and sipped at her drink with the straw again.

            He was smiling back.  “I’m glad to see you,” he said.  “You’re looking well.”

            She let her straw fall back into the glass.  “I’m glad to see you too,” she said.

            “New glasses, I see,” he said.

            She fingered the black square frames.  “Yes.  The old ones were pretty much kaput, and I needed a new prescription anyway.”

            “You cut your hair, too.”

            “Yes,” she said, amused, “and I put on five pounds, and I’ve got some new clothes, and they finally took the stitches out of my temple.  You can hardly see the scar now.” She fingered the place absently, still looking at him.  Up close, she could see the creases of travel-weariness and general lack of sleep in his face.  It was time she got down to brass tacks and felt him out.  “So what are you up to?” she asked him.

            He sighed.  “I’ve come to make inquiries at the Council.  I suppose you know....”

            She gave a sigh of her own.  “Yes.”

            “Come to lay my offering at Caesar’s feet, more like,” he grumbled.  “I’m already hating every minute of this trip.”

            “Have you—”

            “No,” he said wearily, “I haven’t been there yet.  I go tomorrow.  My plane got in just a few hours ago, and I thought I might take a bit of time to enjoy being home while I can.”  The barmaid brought his drink; he took the straw out and imbibed deeply.

            “You’re not going to be here long, then,” she said.

            He shook his head, swallowing, and put the drink down, a quarter diminished.  “Ahh.  I needed that.”

            She felt she had to ask it.  “And how are things...back in...?”

            “Back at the Hellmouth?”  He took another sip.  “Bloody depressing.”

            “Oh.”  She wilted a little, thinking over what she remembered of the story.

            “Ransacked every book on the bloody continent for this woman’s identity, to no purpose.  Buffy’s had a breakup, and _that_ never goes well.  I didn’t like leaving her.  And, I suppose you’ve heard that Joy—her mother’s been ill?”  He looked up and saw her face.  “Oh...I’m terribly sorry.  I didn’t mean to—it’s more the jet lag than anything.  Really, I only wanted to see you just—to see how you were doing, not to talk about all this....”

            She looked at him over her new glass-rims.  “Rupert.  Really.  It’s okay.”

            He lowered his eyes and cupped his drink protectively in both hands.  She traced the familiar shape of his fingers with her own gaze, thinking dimly, then lifted her own glass for a fortifying sip.

            “I haven’t met her,” she said quietly, “but when you get back, you’ll give my best wishes to Joyce, won’t you?”

            He looked up at her, a lanced sharpness of grief in his eyes behind his glasses.  Then, a swift moment later, his gaze softened.  “Of course,” he answered, his voice as soft as hers.  Then he smiled.  “You’re really looking well, you know,” he said.

            “You mentioned that.”

            “Tell me—tell me how you are.”  His hands cupped themselves earnestly around his drink again.

            So she told him, about her job with Mr. Edwards, about her jaunts about London looking for books (“and I couldn’t have asked for a better way of getting to know the city,” she said—“not to mention the books I pick up for myself.  There’s this 1662 Prayer Book….”), about the status of her application to Oxford (“there’s talk of bringing me up for Trinity term just to see what I’m made of,” she said, “so that sounds promising, if scary.”), about her new friends in both Oxford and England, especially Brian....

            “Oh,” Rupert said.  “Are you...are you seeing him, then?”

            Elisabeth shook her head.  “Not that kind of chemistry,” she said.  “But a good kind.  It’s been a long time since I had friends.”  She smiled.

            He nodded.

            “Plus,” she said, “he’s been an incredible help to me dealing with all the Oxford stuff.  Without him I’d be horribly at sea.”  She put down the last of her whisky and soda.  “And,” she said, “not to mention how very kind Olivia has been to me the past couple months.”

            “So...that’s going all right then, is it?”

            “Yes,” Elisabeth said frankly.  “It was a little shaky at first, but we’re getting on pretty well now.  Thank you.”

            “When I talked to her,” Rupert said, “she seemed all right; but she hasn’t given up being leery of me, especially as I didn’t have any bright, cheery news to bring her from the Hellmouth.”  His face lowered and darkened a little.

            “It’s probably not the Hellmouth,” Elisabeth told him, still frank, but softer.  “You look tired, Rupert.”

            “I am tired.  I’m tired down to the very soles of my shoes.”  He put his forehead in his hand and drew a long breath.

            “Hating every minute of this trip.”  Elisabeth echoed his own words back to him.

            He looked up with a weary smile.  “Well, not this part of it anyway.  I’m glad to see you.  You look wonderful.”

            “Yes,” Elisabeth said serenely, “considering what dogshit I looked last time you saw me.”

            Too late Rupert saw his gaffe.  “Oh, hell, Elisabeth.  I’m sorry, I—”

            “Well,” she admitted, “I did.  Looked in the mirror in the women’s restroom when I got to Heathrow.  Almost looked round for the bag lady behind me.”

            He was giving her a lopsided smile that was half sympathy, half lingering abject apology.  She decided to let him off the hook.  “It’s okay,” she said.  “You’re allowed to be surprised that I bounced back.”

            “Well,” he said, “I knew you would; I just didn’t expect it to be so—evident, so soon.”

            “I’ll probably have a backlash or two a few months down the road.  But at the moment, I’ll take my thriving while I can.”

            “A good philosophy,” he said.

            She eyed him narrowly.  “So—why’d you look me up?”

            He blinked.

            “I mean, considering how little time you have here, and y’know, how we kindof had this tacit agreement—”

            He lowered his eyes.  “Yes.  I can see how it would look from that perspective.”

            “So what about it?” she persisted.

            He raised his eyes to hers.  “Are you angry?”

            It was her turn to blink.  “No—Rupert—no.  I’m not angry.  I just...” She cocked her head at him— “wondered.”

            He lowered his eyes again and gave a great sigh; finished off his drink, ice and all.  He waited till he’d crunched the ice quietly and swallowed before trying to answer.  “Really...I’m not sure why I looked you up.  I think...”  He met her eye at last.  “I think I just wanted to hear some good news.”

            She searched his face for that second, and decided he was telling her the truth; or at least as much of the truth as he knew himself.  What remained to tell, she could not quite see.

            She shrugged and lifted her hands.  “Well...here I am, good news incarnate.  Though—not in a blasphemous sense.”

            He laughed softly.

            “I’ve been reading _The Art of War_, you see,” she said.  “Bit by bit.  It takes mulling over.”

            He brightened.  “Have you, now?”

            “Yes,” she said.  “It put in a new light for me the truism that you have to know yourself even better than you know your enemy.”

            “Yes,” he said.  Then, “yes,” more quietly, looking inward.

            She covered his hand with hers, urgently.  “But don’t think about enemies right now.”

            He looked back at her.  “Right.”

            His hand was quite still, but responsive, under hers.  She did not move; and as the moment stretched to accommodate their shared gaze she began to realize that the appointed time to break contact had come...and gone.

            “I’ve missed you,” he said, simply.

            She nodded, unable to speak.

            Another silence fell as they searched one another’s eyes.

            Finally, she ventured, very quietly:

            “Rupert...are you...are we...?”

            “At this point,” he said ruefully, “my intentions are fairly straightforward.”

            Her lips primmed into an almost-smile, and her cheeks grew very warm.

            It was another moment before she said: “Where are you staying tonight?”

 

*

 

The taxi ride seemed both short and unbearably long.  He held her hand, his fingers softly stroking the heart of her palm.  She was sitting close, in the lee of him, and though they were not overtly touching, she felt that the very crackling air radiating from them ought to be drawing the gazes of everyone within fifty feet.  The taxi driver, at the very least, surely knew.

            They pulled up at Rupert’s lodgings, an apartment-house-cum-hotel in a modest neighborhood; Elisabeth stood shivering with her hand in the crook of his overcoat-clad arm while he paid the driver.  Then they were indoors, and on the first landing they paused as one to kiss hungrily.  He gathered her in so that she was tucked within his open coat, his hand splayed at the small of her back.  It was a trial, more than anything—a cursory exploration, to see if they still fit well together.

            They very much did.

            He pulled back and drew her with him, up more stairs; Elisabeth stumbled, and he half-caught her as they kept on.  Desire rolled off her arms and fingertips in waves, so that when they found his door and he paused to fish his key card frantically from a pocket, she grew impatient and pulled his head down again.  Talented, she thought—her one unshattered thought—talented he was, to kiss her and unlock the door both at once.

            They bundled inside; and Rupert spared the merest of glances round the room to make sure they were alone before he used her body to shut the door, and his mouth met hers with a force that sent the faintest of breathless noises up through her sinuses.  He was shedding his coat; he was pulling off both their glasses and dropping them somewhere with a clatter; his fingers curved over her throat and downward, working her coat off her, and she busied her hands (once he’d freed them) with his belt buckle.  Then worked her way up to his tie, already loose.

            Her blouse was unbuttoned, swiftly, and he lifted her knee both to press close to her and to pull off her shoe.  Did the same with the other, and after that it was short work to get her slacks down to her ankles.

            The taste of his mouth was hot and salt, and his hands, oh, his hands were everywhere.  She drew breath in a sobbing gasp and searched for a grip on him—the angle of his T-shirt-clad shoulder, the nape of his neck.

            His kisses had trailed down to the hollow of her throat, at which she had leaned her head back and shut her eyes; but abruptly he returned to her mouth, seeking—finding—and his whole body melted against hers.  She lost her breath completely.

            A fragment of thought hit the floor of her mind: they were going to consummate their rendezvous against the door; this was certainly new—but instead he gathered her up and away from the hard wood and maneuvered them both, stumbling, to the bed, where they fell in a heap together.  His hands set about realigning them within the instant, and she got her own hands under the hem of his T-shirt and worked it up and off him.

            All at once he pulled up and away from her.  “No—,” she moaned, grasping for him.

            “I forgot—something—” he uttered hoarsely.  He disappeared from her sight, and she heard him rooting about in what must be his luggage.  There was a crackle, and he reappeared, dropping a packaged condom onto the bed next to her.

            “Oh right,” she said on a breath, “good plan.”

            When he returned to her, she welcomed him, and they embraced with renewed intent, their bodies as one even before the event, his brow resting on hers until just before the moment when they arched together.

            Her mind dislimned and melted warm, down into the very mettle of her, so that she was thinking with her skin, her limbs and skin enfolding him, and he was moving in rhythm with his breath, breath she found precious and oh so perfectly what she wanted.

            Her own breath was stolen and returned to her over and over; over and over her hands searched his skin for the perfect hold, until, shaking, he collapsed upon her and they finished, knit together whole, what they had begun to make.  Great relief broke over her and she closed her eyes and released the breath she didn’t know she had held.  And he rested on her.

            Her conscious mind was returned to her, graciously, just as he lifted his head and their eyes met.  He bent his face to hers and they joined in the leisurely kiss they had dispensed with earlier, savoring it.

            In time, even their kiss came to its end, and he rested his brow on hers quietly before pulling back to look into her face.

            Her voice scraped hoarsely to life.  “I guess we had some unfinished business, looks like.”

            He bubbled into a soft laugh and bent to kiss her again, briefly.  “I guess so.”

            “I think—what’s that on my ankle?  Can you see it?”

            He squirmed around, looking over his shoulder; reached down, unhooked the obstruction, and drew into view—her panties.  She started to laugh helplessly, gasping for breath, and he laughed too. 

            It was this, as much as anything, that broke the spell.  “Have you eaten yet?” she asked him.

            He shook his head.

            “Then for heaven’s sake order something in while I hit the shower.”

            He laughed.  “Right.”  He raised himself, withdrew from her gently; helped her to her feet.

            Some time later she emerged from the bathroom to find him in the chair watching television, dressed in T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, and picking open a packet of cigarettes.

            “You mind if I smoke?” he asked her, lifting his eyes over his glass-rims.

            She shook her head, surprised only for a moment, and went back into the bathroom to finish combing out her wet hair.  That done, she belted his robe around her middle tightly, found her glasses on the table, and went to make herself a nest on the bed and watch television with him, through the curling haze of smoke.  After some time there was a fusillade of knocks on the door; Rupert stabbed out his cigarette and got up to take delivery of a large pizza.  This is familiar, Elisabeth almost said.

 

*

 

A time later found them both nested together in the bed, the pizza box empty, the television off.  She had taken off her glasses again so that she could nestle her cheek in the hollow of his shoulder, her hand resting limply curled around his waist.  She had forgotten his scent after living infused with it, those days in his flat.  They seemed so long ago now, but the scent and his gentle style of breathing moved her with the quiet shock of its familiarity, that and the idle strength of his arm across her back.

            “Somehow,” she murmured, “I don’t think this was in the plan.”

            It was the first thing either of them had said since they’d finished eating, and it stirred him to move his arm across her back, stroking down her shoulder thoughtfully.

            “…No,” he said.  “You having regrets?”

            She thought about it.  “Well…no.  You?”

            He sighed.  “No more than usual.”

            At this she lifted her head and tilted it back to look at him.  His gaze was downcast, resting on her hand on his waist.  She was trying to figure out what was making him look so chastened…and it came to her, just as he spoke.

            “Elisabeth…I ought to tell you….”

            “You packed condoms,” she said.

            His eyes skittered up to hers.  He sat silent.

            “You packed condoms,” she repeated, and sat up.  “You were planning this.”

            “No,” he said, his hand making a desperate movement.  “Not planning….Secretly hoping.”

            “Rupert,” she said, severely, and opened her mouth to demand why he hadn’t told her before; but closed it again when she realized that she already knew.  “Secretly hoping,” she repeated dryly.  Mordant amusement played about her lips.  “Secretly hoping I would seduce you…which I promptly did.  Well, well.”

            His eyebrows arched superciliously.  “And if I may say so, it’s a good thing I did think to bring the condoms, because—”

            “Are you seriously about to give me a lecture on safer sex practices?”

            “Well,—”

            “Because I’ve only recently been divested of my innocence?”

            He lowered his eyes again.  “That would be rather hypocritical of me, wouldn’t it.”

            She sighed, still slightly amused.  “Why don’t we just take all that as read.  The point is,…”  She stopped.

            He looked her in the eye briefly, before moving his hand to touch hers still resting on his stomach.  “The point is,” he said glumly, “I misrepresented my motivations to you.”

            “No,” she said, “actually you didn’t.  You’ve been practically screaming it all evening.  The point is, all this leaves us somewhere different than I thought we were.”

            He looked up at her.  “Nothing’s changed,” he said.

            “Well…technically…no.”  She sighed.  “It’s just that…all things considered, you probably should have taken your solace with someone who didn’t know what’s going on.”

            She said it gently, but she was unprepared for his response: his chin and shoulders dropped dejectedly.  There was a long silence.

            “But,” she said, clearing the lump from her throat, “I’m clearly not above dishing out the cheap comfort, since the costly kind I can’t give you.”

            He raised his eyes to hers then, and they sat that way for a long moment.  Elisabeth’s eyes sparkled briefly; she cocked her head in an apologetic gesture.  He sat up and drew her into a hug, and she hugged him back tightly, shutting her eyes.

            She brought up a hand to stroke the back of his hair; he responded in kind, smoothing the soft fabric of his robe up and down her spine.  Almost by mutual impulse they pulled back to face one another: he kissed her, and she kissed him in return, tucking a bit of his hair behind his ear.  After a second she withdrew her lips from his.  “You need a haircut.”

            “Keep forgetting to get one,” he murmured, drawing her back into the kiss.

            Cheap comfort she had called it; but there was new understanding in their mutual touch: he did not hide the hum of fear in the fibers of his muscles, and she did not conceal the compassion that was mixed with her hunger.

            She reached down and pulled free the tie of his robe around her, as he laid her down and bent to embrace her waist snugly.  He smoothed the edge of the robe away from her skin, exposing it to his kisses that left her mouth and worked their way increasingly downward.  She closed her eyes, chin upraised.

            But after a moment she opened them again.  “Rupert,” she whispered, “what—what are you—?  Oh….”

            She said no more after that.

 

*

 

A long time after, they fell asleep together, naked and spent, empty both of words and caresses; but Elisabeth woke in the small hours and crept out of the bed, to tie his robe around her again and curl up in the chair.  There was nothing to read, not even a Gideon Bible, so she sat there and stared muzzily, not quite thinking, restless and sleepy at once.

            Looking at his still face, she had thought him deeply asleep; but he moved after a moment, turned over with his hand out to find her, and his eyes fluttered open when he did not.  He glanced around blurrily in the dimness and finally caught sight of her in the chair; but he did not speak.  Instead they shared a quiet look, suspended in the stillness of those hours that were neither night nor morning.  There was no need to say anything.

            When the light in the room began to change, she crawled out of the chair and back into bed with him, and they drowsed together with his arm draped over her, until morning light and sound began to seep in through the window.

 

*

 

In the cab as it fought its way manfully through slow traffic, Elisabeth said quietly:  “Olivia’s going to be upset.”

            “Why?  She’ll know where you’ve been.  And she said she was going to be out most of the night herself, so it won’t be as if she stayed up waiting and worrying for you.”

            “Not about that.”

            “Then, what? about us?  Surely not.  These things have happened before; she’ll understand.”

            Elisabeth pressed her lips together, unwilling to agree.  “I think this is a bit more complicated.”

            Rupert sighed.  “Well, I hope you’re wrong.”

 

*

 

His confidence notwithstanding, Rupert came into the flat with her, in a gesture half of protection, half seeking reassurance.  Olivia came out of the kitchen, still dressed in yesterday’s blouse and skirt, but barefoot.  “Ah, you’re there,” she said, in a voice that was slightly too airy.  “I was just about to make breakfast.  You have time to eat?” she asked Elisabeth, then belatedly looked at Rupert to include him in the invitation.

            “Yes,” Elisabeth said.

            “I’m afraid not,” Rupert said.  “I have an appointment across town.”

            “Shame,” Olivia said pleasantly.

            Elisabeth’s shoulders hunched, making her look even smaller between Rupert’s and Olivia’s height; but just then the phone rang.  Olivia answered it in her most professional voice, then handed the cordless handset to Elisabeth.  “It’s for you.”

Elisabeth took the phone, listened, then said to the others, “I’m sorry, I’ve got to take this.”  She glanced at them both; neither Rupert nor Olivia moved to protest, so she hurried into her room with the phone pinned to her ear with her shoulder.  “Hang on, let me get pen and paper.”  The door closed, just as Olivia called, “I’ll put on the kettle for tea, shall I?”

            Olivia went into the kitchen and began to fill the kettle with water, her hands steady but her skirt swishing with more than the usual vim as she moved.  Rupert stood and watched, back to the wall, his arms crossed over his chest.  There was a long silence, broken only by the sounds of Olivia rattling the kettle onto the range.  The gas flames snapped to life and began to bathe the bottom of the kettle in blue fury.

            “You’re angry,” Rupert said.

            “No,” she said, “I’m not.”  She rummaged in her tea tin, not looking at him, but couldn’t resist adding:  “I happen to think you’ve made a colossal mistake…but no, I’m not angry.”

            He sighed deeply and crossed his arms tighter over his chest, but found nothing to say for another moment.  Then he ventured:  “She was afraid you’d be hurt.”

            “She doesn’t know better than to think that,” Olivia said shortly.  Then she turned on him.  “But you do.”

            “You _are_ angry,” he said.

            Her gaze was very direct.  “Why’d you sleep with her, Rupert?”

            He tossed his gaze aside and refolded his arms.  “I don’t think—I have no intention of—”

            She brushed past him into the dining area and began to clear the table of books and papers.  He drifted after her, to rest in the kitchen doorway.  “It’s too much to explain,” he said.

            “You think so?”  Olivia neatened her stack of papers on the arm of the couch.  “Because I tend to think it’s rather simple, myself.”

            His voice turned cool.  “I don’t believe I’m answerable to you for my behavior,” he said.

            She turned around and fixed him with her gaze again.  “I disagree.”

            He was so startled that his arms fell uncrossed and he rose from his lounging position in the doorway.  “How?”

            She approached him, staring him down, till she was just out of touching distance.  “You put her into my hands.  You made me responsible for her.  And I did what you asked.  She worked damn hard to get her health back, and so did I.  And you come here and stir her up and knock it all down—”  She broke off and lowered her voice.  “I’ll help any friend of yours, Rupert, but I won’t clear up your messes.”

            His lips primmed, and he answered in a hiss.  “I’m not _asking_ you to clear up my messes.  And this isn’t a _mess_.  It was Elisabeth who reminded me that our paths are separate.  She’s not as naïve as you think.”

            “She’s not as naïve as you, anyway.  You don’t understand bravado when you hear it?  After all these years?  Or were you just too busy thinking with your—”

            “Enough,” Rupert said, and made to move past her, but she blocked his path.

            “You still haven’t explained to me why you slept with her.”  Now Olivia had her arms crossed.

            “I’m not going to explain anything,” he snorted, and moved again.  She put out an arm and braced it against the doorway, effectively boxing him in.

            But it was her raised eyebrow that finally made him heave a sigh and lift his eyes to the ceiling.  “I told you it was complicated.  It was…solace.”

            “For you.”

            “Well, I don’t know what it was for her.  Hunger, perhaps.  Maybe solace, too.  I don’t know.  You know how these things are,” he said, almost pleadingly.

            Olivia did know.  Her grip on the doorway loosened, and she sighed.  “You’re such a bastard, Rupert.”

            “Yes, well,” he answered, with more bitterness than he’d meant, “I’m the one’s got to go home and pick up the pieces.”

            She gave him a long, appraising look, and let him go.  He moved forward unhindered toward the front door, and she followed him slowly.  “So what are you going to do about it?” she said.

            “Do?” He half turned.  “There’s nothing _to_ do, except leave, as, I may add, she rightly expects of me.”

            “I mean,” Olivia said gently, “about the fact that you’re falling in love with her.”

            His face moved as if toward denial; but he gave up after a moment and lifted his chin stoically.

            “I don’t have to do anything,” he said.  “The Hellmouth will take care of that for me.”

            She straightened, and her eyes went very dark.

            He paled.  “Forgive me,” he said softly.  “I meant that it would make me forget.  I didn’t mean….”  But he stopped. 

            “I’m afraid I’ve run out of time,” he said after a moment’s silence.  “I’d better go.  Give Elisabeth my—my— Well, anyway, goodbye.”

            In the kitchen, the kettle began to sing softly.

            “Good day, Rupert,” Olivia said, very quietly.  “I trust you know how to let yourself out.”

            He nodded, and went; and the door shut softly behind him.

            Olivia went and turned the gas off under the kettle, shaking slightly.

            Presently Elisabeth came out of her room, phone in hand.  “Sorry about that.  It got rather involved.”

            “Ah,” Olivia said.

            “Where’s Rupert?  Did he take off already?”

            “Yes.  He had to go.  He said to give you his love.”

            Elisabeth snorted.  “Chicken.”  She stopped in the act of putting the handset on its rest.  “Are you okay?”

            “Yes; fine,” Olivia said.  “Listen, I’m going to grab a shower before breakfast.  You want to take over in here?”

            “Sure.”  Elisabeth moved past her to get out the sausages and eggs; Olivia slipped out of the kitchen and down the hall, without another word.

            Elisabeth glanced after her, then gritted her teeth as she pulled out the frying pan.

 

*

 

Sure enough, breakfast was a silent affair, bereft of the easy confidence they had built up between them.  Olivia kept her eyes on her plate, and poked at her eggs twice as often as she ate of them.  To Elisabeth, it was almost a relief to see that something was so clearly wrong.  She finally put down her fork.

            “What happened?” she asked quietly.

            “Nothing,” Olivia said automatically, then realized her mistake.  She put her fork slowly down also.  “Well, almost nothing.  Rupert and I had some words, that’s all.”

            Elisabeth swallowed the constriction in her throat.  “About me?”

            Again Olivia made an abortive gesture, as if to brush the conversation off, but gave up, and sighed.  “Ostensibly.”

            Elisabeth’s shoulders went down.  “I see,” she said sadly.

            She watched Olivia’s face move and change, choosing what to tell her.  “I berated him for not being careful of you….” she said finally, and despite herself Elisabeth’s spine straightened— “but….”

            “But what?” Elisabeth encouraged, though she thought she knew.

            But Olivia could not say it.  “Rupert and I have some history,” she said instead.  “I don’t think I can explain.”  She primmed her mouth and let out an explosive sigh.  “I don’t know what he thinks he’s playing at,” she said, half to herself, then looked at Elisabeth for the first time.  “Or what _you_ think you’re playing at, for that matter.  I thought you said you—”  She broke off.  “It’s that place, isn’t it.  It’s that creepy little town.  It turns people’s heads.”  Her hands shook as she brought the napkin up from her lap to the tabletop.

            Elisabeth sat up straight, her insides trembling.  “Olivia,” she said, “…there are some things I have to tell you.”

            A small silence fell, in which Olivia’s eyes went wide and dark.  “I don’t…I don’t think I want to know,” she said.

            “I know,” Elisabeth said.  “Why else do you think I’ve been so reticent?”  She stopped and looked her in the eye a moment.  “It’s both better and worse than you think.”

            There was another small silence, in which Elisabeth let her think it over.  After a moment, Olivia said, “Is what you’re going to tell me supposed to make Rupert come out smelling like a rose?”

            Elisabeth snorted.  “Hardly.  But it’s like you say, it’s the history of the thing.”

            This, Olivia appeared to understand.  “I suppose we have to work out our position,” she said softly.  Then she folded her elegant hands together and rested them on the table.  She drew a deep steadying breath.

            “All right,” she said, “tell me.”

 

*

 

Elisabeth managed to get the bit about being from another dimension out all right.  She quailed at telling Olivia the rest, how she knew Rupert’s whole Hellmouth history from a television series that was growing ever more ephemeral in her memory the more time passed; but she swallowed her qualms and told that bit too.  For someone determined to have nothing to do with the supernatural, Olivia took it rather well:  she rubbed her forehead wearily, asked some questions, and did the only thing she could do—she accepted.  That Elisabeth could not, with her knowledge, have remained in America was now clear; and that her whole purpose now was to start an entirely new life, apart from Rupert’s mission (which Olivia could see was growing direr), went quite far to comfort her.

            “But in that case,” Olivia burst out at last, “why _did_ you sleep with him?  I mean, we know what Rupert was thinking with, but what were _you_ thinking with, for heaven’s sake?”

            Elisabeth cast her eyes down and let her shoulders fall.  She didn’t really have an answer.

 

*

 

The passage of hours and then days did nothing to clear her head.  She had packed him neatly away in a mental space inhabited by valuable friends who had helped her on her journeys, distinguished from the others only by the lengths he’d gone to to help her and the extent to which she’d let him in (and not merely in the sexual sense).  But now he refused to stay put:  like one of his Tiffany lamps, he couldn’t bring light without color to her thoughts, and sometimes—often—she found she couldn’t _not_ think of him; couldn’t suppress the memory of their snatched moments together…._This way, love_, he’d said, and _Do you remember?_ she’d said, and _Your skin, it’s so soft_, he’d said….

            Somehow, taking that simple solace had blurred the lines of friendship, radiating outward into a tenderness that neither had marked at the time but which stood out to her now, painfully salient amid the prosaic ridiculousness of their rendezvous.

            And what business had she had, doing that to him?  If it was distracting to her, when nothing more rested on her efforts than one person’s career, what was it doing to him, who had the future of worlds to think about?

            _Hold your horses, Elisabeth_, she thought; _you don’t know for sure it did anything to him like it’s done to you.  Don’t be so damned narcissistic.  For all you know it’ll be easy for him to get you out of his system.  And it’s not going to be all _that_ difficult for you, is it?_

            That seemed to be that.  Elisabeth filled her calendar: a lunch date with her new friend, and a leisurely session at the BM.  Perhaps she’d strike into new territory at Oxford, become a medievalist as well as a Romanticist.

            Perhaps she’d fall in love with nothing more dangerous than books.  After all, books were pretty dangerous.

 

*

 

“I’m going out for a quick patrol,” Buffy said, getting up from the table.

            “Be careful,” Joyce said automatically.  The coffeecups clinked gently as she put them down in the sink.

            Rupert acknowledged Buffy’s going with only a grunt, leaving his brow propped on the heels of his hands.  The jet lag was starting to get to him, boomeranged there and back as he’d been, and worse, he could feel Joyce staring at him.

            “Was it that bad?” she asked quietly.

            Rupert offered up a slightly longer grunt, but Joyce, like Buffy, was hard to put off at the most inconvenient times.  She came back to the table and sat down next to him.

            “I mean,” she said, “the Council have an…interesting way of doing things, but they’re pretty predictable, aren’t they?  You have some knowledge of what to expect.”

            “Oh, it isn’t the Council,” Rupert said in a half-moan before he could stop himself.  It wasn’t the first time he’d been seduced into revelations by the equable presence of another adult, and he cursed himself silently.

            “What is it, then?” Joyce settled herself comfortably in her chair and—he could feel it—set her eyes upon him.  “I kinda thought there was something.  There isn’t—more about Dawn, is there?”

            “No,” Rupert said, “it’s not so much about Dawn.  I’m just tired—jet lag, you know—and—” he could sense this wasn’t going down well and so he bit the bullet— “I did something rather stupid.”

            “A woman?”  Buffy clearly got that dry humorous tone from her mother.  Rupert made a mental note to—do nothing about it, as there was obviously nothing to be done.  He sat back and lifted his gaze wearily to the ceiling.  “I didn’t ‘do’ a woman,” he said, with as much dignity as he could muster.  “I met a friend.”

            “Well, good,” Joyce said.  “What’s stupid about that?  You probably needed it.”

            Rupert flushed, despite his best efforts.  “Yes, well, I probably should have got it from someone who didn’t know what was going on, as Elisabeth herself said.”

            “Ohh,” Joyce said.  “_That_ woman.”  Rupert looked sharply at her, and she added, “Buffy mentioned a thing or two.”  As he watched, curiosity took over in Joyce’s face, and she leaned forward eagerly.  “Is she really half your age?”

            “No!” Rupert said, wounded, and Joyce backed off, palms flipped up.  “Okay,” she said gently.

            With an effort he calmed himself.  “No,” he repeated, eyebrows raised, “she’s almost thirty.”

            There was a tiny little smile on Joyce’s lips, but she tidied it away as he glared at her.  “Would you like some cocoa?” she asked him.  “I could make you some, and you could tell me all about it.”  He continued to glower; she wheedled, “It’s the kind with the little marshmallows.”

            Rupert considered:  Joyce might make fun of him, but she _was_ a fellow adult, and relatively clear-eyed.  She might be able to give him some perspective, because as it was his brain was a constant tumult of protective urges, impotent teeth-gritting rage, and now—which he hadn’t planned for but should have expected—an intermittent, powerful longing.  And he did like the little marshmallows.

            “I’ll put the kettle on,” Joyce said.

 

*

 

He ended up telling Joyce a lot more than he’d planned.  It took two cups of cocoa just to get through what had happened while Elisabeth was in Sunnydale, and what was worse, he kept finding himself having to pick up different threads of the story only to drop them and explain something else.  By the time he’d got to the chocolate sludge at the bottom of his second cocoa, he felt both drained and unsure whether he’d really said anything at all.  Looking at Joyce’s pensive face, he wondered if it had been a good call to tell her that Buffy had been temporarily convinced that Elisabeth was evil.  Joyce understood Buffy’s fierce protectiveness of her parent figures, but she knew, as Rupert himself did, that Buffy was nevertheless seldom wrong.

            But he wasn’t prepared for what Joyce did say.

            “Gosh.”  She looked him sympathetically in the face.  “You really like her, don’t you?”

            He dropped his eyes to the tabletop, harder hit by this than by Olivia’s dramatic pronouncement.  “I really only brought the condoms as a long shot,” he said after a long moment.  “I didn’t really expect her to be…thriving, and so—poised.  If she still were really dependent on me I’d never have—”

            Rupert was saved from having to finish this mawkish misdirection by the sound of Buffy coming in.  “Hey,” Joyce called.  “You all right?”

            Buffy appeared in the doorway.  “Yeah.”  There were shadows under her eyes, Rupert noticed.  “It’s pretty quiet.  Just one vamp, and he was drunk.”  Her eyes took in the two of them at the table, and Rupert’s empty cocoa cup.  “Didn’t expect you guys to still be in here.”

            “Oh, we were just talking,” Joyce said.  “You look tired, Buffy.  You should get some sleep.”

            “Nah.  Gotta get a little studying done first.  I’ll see you in the morning.  ’Night, Giles.”  She moved on out of the doorway, and they heard her slow weary footsteps going up the stairs.

            Rupert and Joyce were silent a moment as, faintly overhead, Buffy’s door shut with a soft click.  Then they looked at one another.  There was a grimness to Joyce’s mouth that worried him; but she said nothing, merely got up and took his mug to the sink to soak with the coffee cups.  She turned around at last and pinned him with a shrewd glance.  “So which would you rather do: have an adult relationship with her, or take care of her?”

            Rupert kept his chin low and weighed his answer, meeting her eyes.  “Are we talking about Buffy, or Elisabeth?”

            Instead of answering, Joyce broke into a little smile and waited.

            “Are you going to tell me I’ve got to get a hold of my runaway fatherly tenderness?” Rupert tried to keep the bitterness in his voice to a minimum.  “Because—”

            But Joyce was shaking her head.  “You know that’s got nothing to do with it.  Parents do what they have to do.  Tenderness isn’t the issue.”

            “I’m not Elisabeth’s parent.  I’m not Buffy’s either, if it comes to that.”  Rupert turned his gaze inward and pinched his lower lip thoughtfully.

            This was Joyce’s cue to say that it can be hard to let go; but she didn’t say it.  In fact, she seemed to be looking inward herself.

            “I wanted to be close to her for a moment,” Rupert heard himself say.  “And I suppose I began to think that a moment wasn’t really enough.  I don’t think I can pin it any closer than that.  Anyway it doesn’t matter.  Choices are terrible things, but only if you’ve got them.”

            That brought Joyce’s gaze back to his face; but in the end her expression softened again and she said, “You really do like her.”

            He raised his eyes to hers over his glass-rims, then took his glasses off altogether and rubbed at his face, which was answer enough.

            At length he sighed and put his glasses back on.  “I’d best be getting home,” he said.

            “Okay,” Joyce said softly.  “I’ll get your jacket.”

            She detoured behind his chair on her way to the front hall and patted his head, a gesture both teasing and gentle.  He got up and followed her; let her help him into his jacket; opened the door and stepped out onto the porch.  “Drive safely,” Joyce said.

            He nodded acquiescently and started down the front walk.

            “Oh, and Rupert?”

            He turned around.  Joyce was leaning against the doorframe, light spilling out past her thoughtful indolent figure, her chin high and calm.

            “Thank you,” she said, “for coming back.”

            He stood silent for a moment, then lifted his chin in a sharp nod of acknowledgment, and turned to go home.

 

*

 

Joyce watched Rupert go with a faint sense of regret, though not for herself.  She closed the door and locked up for the night, turning out lights, battening hatches.  Upstairs, she checked on Buffy, who’d fallen asleep on her bed with a textbook under her head and a highlighter in her hand.  Joyce removed the highlighter and the textbook and spread over her the afghan that had fallen to the floor.

            She cracked open the door to Dawn’s room.  It was dark, but as she moved to close the door, Dawn said, “—Mom?”

            “Honey?”

            Nothing for a minute; then, “Goodnight.”

            “Goodnight, sweetie.”

            Perhaps it was just the vagaries of her sick brain, but there was something Joyce didn’t quite understand about Rupert’s revelations.  Joyce got ready for bed herself, ruminating on what he’d said.  He liked this woman, that was for sure.  And Buffy seemed to have stopped actively disliking her, but Joyce wasn’t sure whether that was just because she had left town.  Of course, Buffy never approved of any of Rupert’s girlfriends; it was a mark of Rupert’s awkward position in her life that Buffy was actually able to do something about it—complain, or try to drive her off—unlike the situation with Hank, which was out of all of their hands.  Joyce rolled her eyes at the reminder:  she supposed she was going to have to call Hank again—not to talk about Buffy, or this crazy situation with the demon woman (Joyce instinctively pulled the covers up protectively around her)—but just to keep in touch, like sick people were supposed to.  Weren’t they?  Anyway, it was a chore she wasn’t looking forward to.  Joyce didn’t like to think what her daughters’ life would be like on the Hellmouth with Hank instead of her; it was a very good thing she was a survivor.  Might not be a bad idea to hedge her bets though; with Hank, and more certainly, her savings and life insurance policy.  Tomorrow, perhaps.

            Joyce put thoughts of chores out of her mind as best she could and settled down to sleep.  A more appealing idea was forming in her mind.  Tomorrow it might not be a bad plan to get hold of Willow, mistress of communications.

            Joyce was in the mood for a little reconnaissance.

 

*

 

Elisabeth was floundering in Oxford admittance literature on the couch when the phone rang.  She paid scarcely any attention; it was never for her, and she was thoroughly engrossed in a stapled packet of information gathered by the dons of Magdalen College—C.S. Lewis’s college, she thought happily, then reminded herself severely that if she was going to try this academia thing again she’d better not overdo the sentimentality; after all, it wasn’t like she had the excuse of time-lag.  Though having to do two years over again, she thought distractedly, wasn’t that a kind of time-lag?  Oxford, city of dreaming spires—home, in this universe, not just to C.S. Lewis but also, once, Rupert Giles.  Elisabeth made a mental note to ask Rupert what college he was, and whether he’d actually gone back to finish his degree.  Then remembered that the plan was not to have any casual dealings with Rupert ever again.  And she’d just reminded herself of that this morning, after waking up from a dream filled with the memory of his hands and clear accepting gaze.  “Steady as she goes,” Elisabeth sighed, and buried her own gaze in the packet.

            Olivia came into the room with the cordless phone.  “It’s for you,” she said.

            “Huh?  Oh.”  Frowning, Elisabeth took the phone, and Olivia disappeared again.  “Hello?”

            “Hello?  Is this Elisabeth?”

            “Um…yeah.”  The female voice sounded familiar, but Elisabeth couldn’t place it.

            “Yes.  This is Joyce Summers, you know, Buffy’s mom?  I know my calling you is kinda strange, but I’ve heard a lot about you from Buffy and Rupert and I wanted to…hello?  Are you there?”

            With an effort, Elisabeth cleared her throat and pulled herself together.  “Yeah.  Yes, I’m here.”

            “You’re probably wondering why I’m calling,” Joyce said.

            “Well…yes,” Elisabeth said, dubiously.  Was Joyce having a crazy fit?  Was she on the warpath?  Or was she—

            “I was curious,” Joyce said.  “You see, Rupert told me a lot about what happened, and—well, it’s none of my business, but I wanted to sort of meet you for myself—”

            “Rupert told you about me?” Elisabeth echoed faintly.  “But why?  I mean—” she realized that sounded rude and tried to rephrase— “what would Rupert have to tell?”  Despite her efforts to make that sound casual and impassive, Elisabeth could hear the raw curiosity in her own voice.  And why did Joyce care about it?  Was she afraid, as Buffy had been, that— “Does Buffy still think I’m evil?” she blurted.

            “Oh, no.  No, no.  Buffy’s forgotten all about it, I think.  Of course, I doubt Rupert has mentioned to her that he saw you while he was in England…but—”

            “My God,” Elisabeth said blankly.  “What did he tell you?”

            “Every—well, probably not everything.  He was in a confessional mood, but he wasn’t very coherent.”

            “Oh,” Elisabeth said.

            There was a small silence.

            “Is he okay?” she asked Joyce finally, in a small voice.

            “I think so,” Joyce said.

            “But you’re worried about him.”

            “Well—”

            “Shit,” Elisabeth said, dejectedly.

            “Oh, I don’t think it’s dire,” Joyce hastened to say.  “I just wanted to get a sense of the whole picture.  That’s why I called.”

            “Yeah.”  Elisabeth went into the darkened kitchen and leaned against the wall.  “I didn’t mean to do that to him, you know: distract him—complicate his life.  He was just so tired and hungry, and I….”  To her dismay, her eyes prickled and her throat ached.  She was silent for a moment, to gain control.

            “You wanted to give him something,” Joyce said, not with conviction, but as if hoping to draw Elisabeth out.

            She said, a little tartly:  “Well, there _was_ my own interest in the affair.”

            “Rupert’s not without his appeal,” Joyce admitted, amusement in her voice.

            Elisabeth heaved a sigh and resigned herself to confession.  “So what’s his deal?  Is he guilting himself about seeing me here?  I tried to tell him not to do that.  Not that he listens.  Plus he kinda skipped out after he brought me back home in the morning, so I wasn’t able to reinforce the message.  Olivia’s mad at him for thinking with his—Other Brain.  And probably she’s narked at him about shagging the poor virgin, too, but I haven’t got her to cop to that bit yet.”

            “The poor virgin?” Joyce said blankly.

            “Me.  When I met him in Sunnydale.  I made the mistake of mentioning it to Olivia at one point.”  Elisabeth ignored the faint qualm of nausea.

            There was a pause.  “Rupert didn’t tell me _that_,” Joyce said at last.

            “Really?” Elisabeth said.  “He forgot that part?”

            “Well, I’m not surprised,” Joyce said.  “He got a little defensive about how much younger you are than he is.”

            “Twenty years’ difference,” Elisabeth said.  “But he’s a boy, so take off ten.”

            Joyce laughed.

            The banter was helping.  Elisabeth kept her eyes on the kitchen clock and breathed deeply.

            “So….”  Joyce’s tone was delicate, like a cat sidestepping a puddle— “so does that mean that you’ve only ever been with Rupert?”

            Elisabeth’s throat closed; she cleared it forcibly.  Surely she could talk about such a mundane matter of fact without it exploding in echoes of connotation.  “Technically,” she said, “…yes.”

            “I see,” Joyce said, in a very small voice that Elisabeth wasn’t sure how to interpret.

            “It was stupid of me,” she blurted.  “I mean, not what happened in Sunnydale, that was all right, that was better than all right—I wanted someone trustworthy—we were more or less on equal ground then.  I just, ohh, God, I know I fucked this one up.  We weren’t really supposed to see each other again…he has too much to think about—and I—I thought I was—immune—”

            “You like him,” Joyce said softly.

            Elisabeth pressed her fingertips punishingly to her upper lip, but was unable to stop the sudden rictus of grief that twisted her face.  She drew breath in a distressed gasp.

            “Oh, honey,” Joyce said, and Elisabeth lost control completely.  For the space of half a minute she cried hard, because Joyce was being very nice to her and was going to die soon, because Rupert was going to be hurt so badly, and because it was going to make him forget all about her, which was what was supposed to happen, which she could do nothing about, and she shouldn’t have done as much as she had.

            With an effort she got breath enough to swallow and opened her eyes in the silence of the kitchen.

            “Perhaps you could make a cup of tea….” Joyce said.

            She nodded, realized that was useless, sniffed, “Okay,” and filled the kettle, moving slowly and sniffling.  They were silent while the water heated; but it was not long before Elisabeth was flopping a teabag into her cup and pouring the water over it.

            “Do you have any honey?  Honey’s good,” Joyce said, and Elisabeth’s tears started again.

            “I know how to make a cup of tea, dammit,” she mewled.

            “Of course,” Joyce said, apologetically.

            But she followed Joyce’s advice and sweetened her tea with honey instead of sugar.  Sipping and wiping her nose on the back of her hand by turns, she regained a little equilibrium.

            “You won’t tell him, will you?” she sniffled at last, in a low voice.

            “Tell him what?” 

Elisabeth missed the humor in Joyce’s tone, and answered, “About me.  About me losing it like this.  It would only bother him, and it doesn’t matter in the long term.”

“Are you sure about that?” Joyce asked quietly.

“I mean, it doesn’t matter whether I—feel an attachment or not.  He’ll forget,” she said.  “He’ll have to.”

There was a small silence.  Elisabeth took a long and fortifying sip of tea.

“He said you know things,” Joyce said at last.

            Elisabeth said nothing, only cleared her throat and sipped again.

            Joyce sighed.  “I’m sorry,” she said.

            Elisabeth was on the far side of her spate of tears, but it still cost her a pang to hear the honest sympathy in Buffy’s mother’s voice.  “Me too,” she said.

            “Are you going to be all right?” she asked.

            Elisabeth released a long breath.  “Yeah,” she said.  And it was true.

            “Don’t feel guilty any more,” Joyce said.  And then added, “I hope it was a good time.”

            Elisabeth found herself smiling.  “It was.  We didn’t get around to the handcuffs, though.”

            She heard Joyce sputter into laughter.  She laughed immoderately for a moment, and then answered, conspiratorially, “Well, to tell you the truth, we didn’t either.”

            Elisabeth grinned.  “Thanks.”

            “Thank you,” Joyce said.

            “Listen—” Elisabeth cleared her throat— “I told Rupert to give you all my best wishes.”

            “Thank you.  The same to you.”  Joyce gave a small sigh.  “Well, I’d better go.  This laundry won’t get itself done.”

            “Yeah.”

            “And I’m sure you’ve got work to do, too.”

            “Yeah.  Thanks.  I’ll catch you—” Elisabeth hung fire a moment, and decided after all to finish the way she’d started— “later.”

            “Yeah.  Bye, Elisabeth.”

            “Bye, Joyce,” Elisabeth answered softly.  She lowered the phone and clicked it off.  Then stared at it a moment before moving her gaze out the kitchen door, to the mess of papers she’d left in the lounge.

            Joyce was right.  The work wasn’t going to get itself done.

            Elisabeth put the phone in its rest, and returned, aching but philosophical, to her dreaming spires.

 

*

 

When Rupert appeared at the Summers house in the evening, to watch over Joyce and Dawn while Buffy patrolled, he found Joyce in the livingroom mending a pair of Dawn’s jeans.  She looked up as he entered and gave him a very unnerving mischievous smile.

            Rupert cast a circumspect glance down his front:  yes, all buttons properly buttoned, his shoes tied, nothing embarrassing there.  He looked up and eyed Joyce narrowly.  “What,” he said.

            “Nothing,” Joyce said.  “Sit down and take a load off.”  But her smile only increased in wickedness, and Rupert lowered himself onto the couch warily.

            “So,” she said, turning over one leg of the jeans, “shag any virgins lately?”

            He stared at her, mouth open.  At last he uttered in aggrieved tones:  “I can’t believe you’d—”

            “What, tease you?” Joyce said.  “Well, to borrow an expression from my daughters, _duh_.”

            “I told you all of that in confidence,” he said, hurt.

            Joyce answered in a singsong voice:  “Nooot the most important part.  You didn’t tell me she was a virgin when she met you.”

            He stared at her blankly.  “Didn’t I?”

            “Nope,” Joyce said cheerfully, biting off the end of her thread.

            He blinked.  “Well…damn.”

            Joyce grinned at him.

            Rupert narrowed his eyes.  “Hang on a minute….Then how did you find out?”

            “Oh, I called her.”

            “You…wh-h-_hat_?”  Rupert almost stood up.

            “I called her.  We had quite a nice conversation.  I like her.”  Joyce started her seam, pulled the thread all the way through, and glanced up to smile at him.  Rupert stared at her openmouthed.

            “She’s a smart cookie—a lot like you, I can see why you hit it off.  I wouldn’t worry about her, you know, she’ll be just fine in this dimension.”

            Rupert shut his mouth.

            “And she called you trustworthy, so I imagine you left her with, um, a good taste in her mouth.”

            “Oh, I say!” Rupert said, with a far more egregiously British intonation than he’d planned, and Joyce snickered.

            “Though she did mention you two never got around to the handcuffs either—”

            Rupert bolted off the couch and into the hall toward the kitchen.  “I’m going to make some tea,” he muttered desperately, hot-faced.

            “Make me some too,” Joyce called after him.

 

*

 

Dawn crept, mouse-like, up the rest of the stairs from her listening post and skittered into her room.  She was taking a risk abandoning the post so soon—what if they said something else important about her, and she missed it?—but this wasn’t going to wait.  She curled up on the floor, with the bed between her and the view from the door, got out her diary, and uncapped her pen.  This deserved violet ink.

            _Oh. My. God.  Giles totally has sex! With virgins!_

_            I wonder if Buffy knows about this._

_            I wonder what Giles would pay me not to tell her._

Satisfied, Dawn recapped the pen, secreted away the diary, and crept back out to the landing, to keep her ears open for the sounds of her mother laughing, and of Giles making tea.


End file.
